


where they don't know who we are

by starmocha (108am)



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Biblical References, Bittersweet Ending, F/M, Good and Evil, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Past Lives, References to Canon, Reincarnation, Temporarily Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-04 22:43:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16798510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/108am/pseuds/starmocha
Summary: When God created light, she was a part of it, and something about her made Him deemed her as “good”, too precious to ever be touched by darkness.And so, they were separated.





	where they don't know who we are

**Author's Note:**

> I’m just poking and prodding my plot bunnies until they become semi-coherent things.
> 
>  **TITLE** | _Ultraviolence_ , Lana Del Rey

In the beginning, God created the heavens and earth.

Or so the narrative went.

For before there was light, there was darkness, and he had already existed, waiting for when everything would come into existence. It was a long, cold dreary lonesome wait, but then, that was how eternity had always been after all. When God created light, she was a part of it, and something about her made Him deemed her as “good”, too precious to ever be touched by darkness.

And so, they were separated.

She was “day” and he was “night,” never to ever be in coexistence. Every morning when he died, she was able to live again, to breathe life onto the earth, her warmth spreading across the land and sea. By dusk, she weakened so that he could come into existence. He brought forth a chill, a cloak for sinister creatures, and he yearned to know what her warmth felt like in comparison to his crisp night air.

He took shape, becoming a creature of evil. He would rather bear the condemned role than ever see her damned and hated by all. She remained his opposite: good and pure, angelic, even. She lighted up people’s hearts, being a source of hope even when they were on the brink of despair. How fitting, how lovely, for he could never be able to bring people such joy as she.

He had become many things. He became Death, a ruler of the Underworld, a creature of nightmares. He was feared, he was scorned, and before long, he had forgotten how they had both fell into their roles of good and evil.

Perhaps, she did as well.

Millenia passed. Memories of former lives were forgotten.

Then, many, many lifetimes later, there was a little girl named Mallory. She came from a long line of proud witches, but there was something unique about the girl’s power. Every morning, she stepped out onto her grandmother’s porch, crossing the wooden floor to where a lantern had hung overnight. Beneath it lay a cluster of dead moths that were seduced by the bright light to their deaths.

Carefully, she gathered a moth into her hands, slowly and gingerly encasing it inside her palms as she thought back to another moment in time, back to before its life thread had been cut so prematurely. When she opened her hands again, she smiled at the sight of the gentle flutter of the moth’s wings before it took flight again, flying down the porch and past a window where her grandmother stood, marveling at the little girl’s still developing powers.

He came into existence again, a little later than she for once. Under the new name, Michael Langdon, he remembered nothing of his former lives— _their_ former lives. He had never thought once about why death seemed to trail so closely to him, why he was so feared by both the living and dead. He didn’t think it was peculiar how this hungry bloodlust clawed inside him until he sated it. He knew nothing of good or evil, just of what his impulse was telling him to do.

Therefore, he murdered any animal that crossed path with him. He slit the throats of all those who irritated him. He did what he needed to do to satisfy his violent thirst.

When they had met again, both appearing the same age, he had already brought the world to the brink of extinction. He had found no satisfaction in the deed, merely finding it to be just a bored task he had to complete. He had his own vengeance to seek out, though what did it matter to others how they had wronged him, had taken away what little love and affection he had in the world?

A son of darkness, he was placed on earth just to be damned time and time again.

He was a monster, an enemy that needed to be destroyed. His head was wanted on a silver platter, and he knew the witches were hellbent on getting it one way or another. It amused him to see them squirm, to know they were desperate enough to shake hands with other evil beings just to be rid of him.

How amusing, he thought. If they really wanted him dead, he would make them work for it.

Mallory, Mallory, sweet, little Mallory. He had tempted her, seduced the little mousy thing to join him in the madness. She had rebuffed him, showed a glimmer of what she was. How surprising, how _intriguing_.

There was something brilliant about the girl, something that seemed to have escaped his notice the first time he had seen her. She was so bright and brilliant and _familiar_.

How disturbing, he thought, how _captivating_.

She awoke to her power, to feel a familiar warmth at the tips of her fingers. A single pulse of her energy was enough to make him pause, to make him, for the first time in a long while, feel fear at the uncertainty. When he looked at her face, seeing the resolved expression, he remembered.

But it was already too late.

They had already adopted their roles long ago, the play was already moving along, and he knew, the end was near.

He did not fight her. He rid himself of the pests that were her “sisters”, he effortlessly destroyed the very souls of the witches’ allies, but he did not fight her. Could not fight her, for he remembered who and what they were in a time before they were defined by only their roles.

Distantly, in a time before everything began, he remembered yearning to exist within her presence.

But perhaps, it was just never supposed to be.

Then things went wrong. So utterly, heartbreakingly _wrong_.

She hated him. He had taken far too many people and creatures from her. He had touched and destroyed everything and everyone she had ever held dear to her heart. He made her _wished_ for his death, wished for a violent vengeance that would calm her raging heart.

And he looked at her, realizing that he had been the one who had extinguished her light.

They fought, because that was their roles. She called upon a torrent of flames, wished to have him burn in his very own hellfire. He effortlessly snuffed her efforts. When he sent his own attacks, she was too blinded by rage to even notice he was holding back, only giving her the illusion that he wished her harm.

He was evil and she was good. He had caused chaos and destruction and for that, she must carry out justice and condemn him for his crimes. He really could not blame her, though still, he wondered.

How did things reach this point?

In the beginning, there was nothing but darkness.

In the end, they had also returned to nothing, just an empty wasteland of sickness and decay.

If this was what it meant for them to coexist together, then perhaps, he should be the one to give up, just so she could shine brightly again. She always did look lovelier than he.

When her power pierced through him, quick and scalding, she recoiled, feeling a violent throb in her head. She held her skull, crying as memories after memories from eons ago came crashing through in quick successions. At first, the memories confused her, scared her, but the more she saw, the more she remembered, she felt her heart constricting with excruciating pain, knowing that they both had no choice in their fates. When the pain finally subsided, she looked up with ragged breaths to see he had already fallen to the ground, his once handsome face was marred with blood and dust, his sky-blue eyes closed.

She fell to her knees, unable to deny the memories, but unwilling to accept reality. She crawled to him, her knees scraped and cut as sharp pebbles dug into her palms.

“I remember you,” she said, voice hoarse and low, her bloodstained hand shakily reached out for his cheek. Weakly, he opened his eyes, the color not as vibrant as she remembered. She trembled, tears fell when he leaned into her touch, into her warmth. The brief look of serenity that passed over his features was enough to crush her heart, to steal away whatever breath she had left.

“We’ll start over,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, but within the silent wasteland, it echoed far and wide. “We’ll do it right this time.”

She nodded and laid down, her face pressed to his chest, listening to his fading heartbeat pound against her ear as they both wasted away, waiting for a new day to begin again.


End file.
